


Rainy Season

by WinryWeiss



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Case Fic, Community: acd_holmesfest, Friendship, Gen, Post-Hiatus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 14:39:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2696633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinryWeiss/pseuds/WinryWeiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspector Hopkins is summoned to deal with a nasty murder in a much worse weather. And said case promptly turns out to be more complicated than originally seemed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rainy Season

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pocketbookangel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketbookangel/gifts).



> Many thanks to **hardboiledbaby** and [thesmallhobbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit) for their help. To be perfectly honest, no words could describe how grateful I am, not only for beta-reading, SPAG check and Brit-pick, but furthermore for their general advices and wonderful suggestions.

The worst things about late autumn are the downpours. They are worse than the general lack of sunshine and warmth, much worse than the season-typical overwhelming sense of melancholy hanging in the air. These unending curtains of rain create a perfect cover for illegal deeds and felonies, more suitable for wrongdoing than starless nights or fog-dimmed days. And what is unpardonable, rain hampers the investigation, washing out footprints and allowing culprits to escape unnoticed. As an inspector of Scotland Yard, the youngest one in fact, I learned to despise the rainy season. Not only for the dreariness of such weather, oh no, more for the ... unpleasant duties, let’s say, which inevitably came along with it.

Well, perhaps I was not entirely veracious in my first statement. The absolutely worst thing about late autumn is the load of work we all have. Not that we at the Yard do not have numerous cases to solve during other seasons, but the numbers of those are somewhat reasonable. Yet, during autumn, especially at the verge between October and November, the quantity of incidents increases nearly twofold, and so each and every police station is buzzing with activity like a beehive shortly before hibernation.

It was during one such hectic period that I was summoned to Elmers End in Bromley to deal with a ‘nasty murder’, as a telegram from the local constabulary informed me. Even this particular call to duty had the flaw common for its kind – it came inconveniently within the very last minutes of my shift, when I was already seeing myself nestled down in my warm bed with an informative monograph about ashes and a pot of strong tea laced with a generous splash of brandy at hand. I was starting to feel in myself the first symptoms of incoming illness. Blast all those sentry duties in rain I still have to serve! Yet off to Elmers End I went, for my service is my life and my master, and when she demands I obediently follow her directions.

* * *

The air was chilly and damp as I set off. All of London was blanketed by heavy leaden clouds, and I noted with resignation that I was heading directly to the darkest area. True enough, the rain started in the midst of my journey. Upon my arrival it turned into a magnificent deluge.

“Sir.” The local constable who was assigned to pick me up at the railway station was barely younger than me, but unlike myself he had the healthy broad figure of a country boy who had to alter all his uniforms, for they would simply never fit around his shoulders.

“Constable.” I nodded in greeting. “I am Inspector Hopkins.”

“‘Onoured to meet you, sir. My name is Edward Carson. We appreciate that you’ve come so far at this ungodly ‘our.”

“Well, the time is not as bad as the weather,” I said to him cheerfully - more cheerfully than I actually felt - as I climbed into his wain, a robust prehistoric thing whose wheels screeched awfully all the way.

“True, sir.” 

A chilly wind started to gain strength, sprinkling us with stray raindrops, as if we weren’t already soaked through. I had to raise my voice to drown the wind out.

“So, tell me about the nasty murder we have here.”

“Well, it’s a rather complicated matter, sir.”

“It always is.” I smiled tiredly at him. “Start from the beginning and do not leave out any detail whatsoever, however unimportant you think it might be.”

“Very well, sir.” He grinned at me. Apparently I was not the only devoted reader of Doctor Watson’s stories in here. “Mr Jacob King, the local butcher, was found dead in his shop. Shortly after four o’clock Miss Marjorie Thompson, who lives across the street, noticed that ‘is doors were slightly ajar. Everyone around ‘ere knows that Mr King ‘ates, erm, ‘ated this kind of vile weather, so she persuaded ‘er younger brother to check on whether Mr King was all right.”

“Ah, let me guess, that poor chap walked right into the body.”

“Exactly.”

“How did he handle it?”

“Quite good, if you ask me.” Carson nodded his head. “Sir,” he added, remembering my official status. “‘E immediately sent ‘is sister for the local doctor and then for us.”

“That was resourceful.”

“Yes. If only the doctor could ‘ave been useful.”

“How old was Mr King?” I asked, barely suppressing the chattering of my teeth.

“Forty-eight. And ‘is wife is four years younger.”

“Could he have died of natural causes?”

“We don’t think so, sir.” 

“Any signs of forced entry?”

“No. No traces of struggle either.”

“Is anything missing?”

“No. And Willie says that every penny is in there.”

“Willie?”

“Wilhelm Mills. Mr King’s apprentice. Lives with the family. ‘E came down with influenza the day before yesterday, so Mr King was all alone in the shop.”

“Any suspects?”

“Frankly, Mr King wasn’t exactly a friendly fellow, but ‘e was not a rude bloke either. There were a few disputes with neighbours or customers, but nothing worth mentioning.”

“I see. How about his family?”

“‘E left behind a wife and an only daughter, a charming lady of the age of twenty-one. I guess you can also count Barnaby Barnes, his partner in business. The two were really close friends.”

“And you have no confession, I presume?” I asked mischievously, more as a joke than an actual question, rubbing my numb fingers.

“Well, that’s the problem, sir.” The Constable looked at me gravely. “We have.”

* * *

To say that the situation at hand was nightmarish would be an understatement. Truth be told, in a certain way it was actually hilarious. Or it would have been, had it not been my responsibility.

The most common problem with a confession is the amount of time it takes to obtain it. Which was not the obstacle here. No. It took less than an hour to acquire the confession of Jacob King’s murder.

To acquire all _three_ of them.

“So, to sum it up, Miss King,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose tiredly, “You claim that you have killed your father, using your arsenic complexion wafer to poison his food.”

“Yes,” Millicent King said sternly, stiff as a stone statue, with lips pressed tightly together and fingers nervously dabbing over the backs of her joined palms.

I saw her mother inhale sharply and Wilhelm Mills grow visibly pale, so I hastily continued. “For what reason?”

“Because he did not approve of my relationship with Willie.”

“But that’s rubbish!” exclaimed her beloved. “ **I** am the one who killed Master King!” He rudely pointed his thumb over his heart, adopting a threatening posture. “I told you so!”

“Mr Mills, could you please ...” The elder constable, who watched over the family before I arrived with his colleague, tried to calm him down.

“I struck that stubborn head of his with his own walking stick!” That young fellow was barely standing now, wavering on his feet, eyes bloodshot from the influenza, but his determination was not to be doubted. Plus, he has the keys for the back door of the shop. And the same motivation as the girl.

“Oh no! It was me!” the recent widow shouted quite loudly, unfortunately right next to my ear. “I slipped oleander extract into the flask of spirit he always carried on his person.” She thumped her chest with nearly every word she said. A really competent gardener, as my companion from earlier revealed. “He threatened my poor little girl!”

All of them could have done it.  
All of them had means and motivation to commit this crime.  
All of them only made my headache worse.

At that point, I wanted nothing more than a solid dose of bromide and the quietness of my room where I would not have to deal with three competing confessions.

Perhaps ...

A noisy commotion at the entrance caught my attention. I turned just in time to see Carson being roughly pushed aside by a tall, gruff man, the kind no one sane would want to meet after sunset alone.

“But Mr Barnes ...!” I heard his shocked futile protest.

And all I needed was one look to know what that man was going to say, even before he opened his mouth.

With a coarse and disagreeable voice, he rumbled: “I was the one who killed Jacob!”

The expression ‘all hell broke loose’ simply could not describe the chaos which erupted at this. All of them were trying to shout the others down, so vehemently that I was nearly sure it would end up in a scuffle.

“NO!” cried out the widow, face pale with dread. “It was me!”

“No,” Millicent King said, far too calmly, “I have killed my father.”

“Oh no!” exclaimed Wilhelm Mills. “It was I who killed Master King.”

I seriously contemplated smacking my head into the nearest suitable surface and groaning in frustration.

* * *

Even though I considered such a thing impossible, the rain grew heavier by the time I arrived at Baker Street. Honestly, that messy situation hardly left me with any other possibility than to consult Him.

As I stepped out of the cab I noticed a yellowish dim light illuminating their sitting room windows. It was well past the time those two usually retired, so it could mean only one thing.

They were out, somewhere in this perpetual rain, dealing with a case.

Well, of course. It’s the rainy season after all. The most hectic time for the force.

I tiredly motioned for the cabbie to wait, on the off-chance I was wrong, and knocked at the now well know door. Mrs Hudson opened it at once, which only confirmed my suspicion that she was staying up late, awaiting their safe return.

“Good heavens! Inspector Hopkins, do come in, don’t stand out there in such dreary weather.” She practically pulled me inside. “Oh Lord, you are completely soaked, up to the kitchen with you, dear boy, do dry out near the stove.” During this she somehow managed to strip me of my heavy overcoat and bowler hat. “I have some sponge cake left and a full pot of steaming tea in there.”

“But ...” was all I managed to say.

“Oh yes, I’ll send that cab away. The Lord only knows when those two will return.”

I desperately prayed that it would be soon.

* * *

The sound of the front door opening some hours later was the most magnificent music to my ears. Not that I don’t like Mrs Hudson, heaven forbid, she is the most amazing woman I have ever met. And I’ve seen more constables and even inspectors than I can possibly count treating her with more respect than their own mothers. But if we were going to catch the earliest train to Elmers End, we would have to hurry.

“Mrs Hudson.” Mister Holmes’ gentle reprove started even before He appeared in the doorframe. “We told you not to ... oh, hello there, Hopkins.”

“Inspector?” Doctor Watson appeared behind Him, squinting at his timepiece. “Good ... well, morning, I guess.”

They looked like a pair of hounds after a successful hunt, deathly tired and soaked through and through, yet completely content.

“Guess?” said Mister Holmes, glancing pointedly at His companion’s watch. “It **is** morning, obviously.”

“Well, I would call it the middle of the night, had I not been kept awake by you.”

Mister Holmes cast a look torn between apologetic and pleading at the Doctor, who rolled his eyes resignedly with a tired sigh. “Where?” He asked simply.

“Elmers End.”

“And, pray tell me, that is where?” Doctor Watson asked, stifling a yawn.

“Bromley,” clarified Mister Holmes. He turned back to me. “Should we change or would that be futile?”

“ _Of course_ it would not be futile, Mr Holmes!” said Mrs Hudson with arms akimbo. “Get out of those sodden clothes, both of you. I’ll prepare some sandwiches for you to take.”

None of us were bold enough to raise even the slightest voice of protest.

* * *

The unbelieving expression of Doctor Watson, muffled up in his companion’s relatively dry and definitely warm Inverness, was accompanied by a choked down chortle of Mister Holmes.

“That young man confessed too?”

“Apparently, dear Watson, men in love sometimes do rather foolish things.”

“Yes, but to confess to a murder...!”

“Not only that young apprentice,” I interjected. “Her mother did the same.”

“But that’s ridiculous!” The Doctor’s face, always an open book, displayed a struggle between horror and amusement. Whereas Mister Holmes inclined towards the latter emotion and guffawed with a snort.

I waited until He had almost calmed down. “And then,” I said in a perfectly neutral voice, quite amazed at myself that I managed to sound so unperturbed, “Mr Barnes, a close friend of family, came and ...”

“You cannot be serious!” exclaimed Doctor Watson.

“Four confessions!” Mister Holmes howled with laughter in an unnaturally high-pitched tone, leaning against the Doctor whose shoulder shook with silent suppressed sniggering.

True enough, once successfully settled, this case would become one of the most, if not the very best, popular stories at the Yard’s Christmas _soirée_. Had it happened to any of my elder colleagues (with the exception of Gregson and Lestrade who simply could not be provoked under normal circumstances, least during the rainy season) I wouldn't have been able to resist the temptation of teasing them with the miraculous acquiring of _three unneeded_ confessions.

Which means I’m going to be constantly reminded about this case for _years_ to come.

Mister Holmes, gasping for breath between His unrelenting fits of laughter, slid completely down the Doctor who could not contain his mirth anymore, a single tear of merriment rolling down his cheek. 

I’m well aware that He would find such situation hilarious even under normal circumstances, and as for Doctor Watson, normally the better behaved one out of the two of them, apparently the tiredness subdued his need for decency. Or it might be the fact that due to the early hours we had not only the compartment, but whole carriage for ourselves.

Yet ... seeing these two like that...

I tried to muffle down my own laughter with both of my palms.

It proved to be futile.

I would have bet my whole year’s wage that the train guard had afterwards checked whether we weren’t fugitives from Bedlam.

* * *

A cat lurking for a mouse, that’s what Mister Holmes looked like, squatted where Mr King’s body was found, with His long lean fingers connected at the fingertips in front of His mouth and eyes darting around the scene of the crime.

“Well....” Doctor Watson customarily assumes in his writings a role of devoted, silent and simple-minded assistant, leading everyone who does not know these two in the flesh to false assumptions. Contrariwise to what he wrote, it is Mister Holmes who plays the role of soundboard for most parts, pointing out the important facts and rectifying mistakes one – primarily Doctor Watson, but lately Lestrade has become the true expert in this area – makes while presenting various theories whilst His mind dwells on the case at hand. “For the time being, we cannot exclude wife and daughter...”

“ _Widow_ and daughter,” Mister Holmes corrected him absentmindedly.

The Doctor ignored that remark with his usual grace and seemingly endless patience borne from more than a decade of cooperation with Him. “Because the chemical analysis will take some time. As for Mr Barnes, from the state of this place, his statement about heated fisticuffs seems impossible...”

“Not to mention the fact that there would be some bruises visible on Jacob King’s body, which Hopkins would surely be acquainted with,” Mister Holmes mumbled, more for Himself than to us.

“Were there any, Inspector?” Doctor Watson looked at me.

I in turn looked at Carson, who was observing Mister Homes admiringly, a lost, starry-eyed expression plastered all over his face. _**Oh God** , it was like looking back in time to my first meeting with Him!_ “Constable?” I asked, not too loudly as my head threatened to split in halves and my heartbeat resonated in my ears. I was not sure whether it was a symptom of sickness or the consequence of an embarrassing memory resurfacing.

“Oh, no, no, sir.” To his credit, Carson managed to look almost professional when answering me. “No bruises, only a wound on the back of ‘is ‘ead.” 

“From the walking stick?” Surprisingly, it seemed that my mind was clearer than ever.

“Or,” Mister Holmes pointed at the counter at His right, “he might have struck his head on here when falling.” He straightened up. “Apart from the blood _here_ ,” His musician’s fingers tapped at the dark smudge on the corner, “There are no traces of fisticuffs, nor any indication that someone had tried to conceal such a struggle. Therefore it is safe to assume there was none.”

“So, Mr Barnes is no longer under suspicion then?” I asked.

“Most likely, but I shall talk to him nevertheless.”

“But why would he confess?” Doctor Watson stroked his moustache pensively.

“Why indeed.” Mister Holmes smiled mysteriously. “Perhaps you can explain that, constable?” He turned His sharp gaze towards His newest admirer.

“Erm, well...” Carson suddenly didn’t know what to do with his hands and he ended up fumbling with his helmet nervously. “It’s said ‘round ‘ere that Mr Barnes wooed Mrs King before ‘er marriage.”

“Ah, here is the motive,” the Doctor smiled sadly, understandingly.

“And moreover,” declared He, “we can rule out Wilhelm Mills.”

“How come?” I asked, absolutely perplexed about the way He came to such conclusion.

The corners of Mister Holmes’ mouth tugged in a smile. “The walking stick.”

“The walking stick?” Again, I was dumbfounded.

“ _Observe_ , Hopkins.” Mister Holmes beckoned towards Doctor Watson. “It was raining when Mr King died. Just like now.”

Observe, He said to me. Observe and deduce from the walking stick and the rain, He meant, while Doctor Watson holds the key to this mystery. Or perhaps it’s not the Doctor himself, perhaps it’s his walking stick - a solid piece of rare wood hiding a blade, more than a mere fashion accessory: a necessity, his constant support, especially in this hostile weather when his old war injury discomforts him.

“Did Mr King use his walking stick often?” I heard myself asking.

“‘Ardly ever, sir,” answered Carson. “‘E considered it a gaudy, fancy thing.”

“So where is that _fancy thing_ now?”

“We couldn’t find it. Willie, erm, Mr Mills keeps saying that ‘e threw it away, but cannot exactly remember where. Sir.”

Doctor Watson, now mildly perturbed by my persistent gaze, shifted, moving his walking stick, and I _saw_ it, I _understood_.

“It was not here in the first place.”

“Beg your pardon, sir.”

“Look,” I pointed at Doctor Watson’s walking stick. “The mud-marks.”

Carson looked baffled beyond belief.

I took pity upon him. “Considering his disdain of it, it seems most improbable that Mr King would have been using his stick, but if he had, said cane would inevitably have left behind some mud-marks, very much of the same kind that Doctor Watson’s is making now. These are not present hence it is safe to assume that the walking stick was missing from the very beginning, unless Mr Mills brought it himself, with the clear intention to strike down his master, which contradicts with his confession.” I spilled out all of this practically in one breath, making myself dizzy. And for heaven sake, I sounded like Mister Holmes Himself!

Carson gaped at me with the awe I thought was reserved only for Mister Holmes.

Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of Him, positively grinning at me. “Good, Hopkins.” He clapped His hands once. “ _Very_ good. You are improving rapidly.”

The blush that lit my features could have easily outshone the brightest lighthouse of England.

* * *

“Halloa! What’s this?” Mister Holmes’ enthusiastic exclamation echoed through the bedroom of the late Jacob King.

I winced, for it seemed to me that His powerful voice sliced right into my very skull.

“Pills,” remarked Doctor Watson, currently preoccupied with rummaging through his Gladstone bag in search of whatever medicament he deemed necessary.

“You can do better, dear fellow.”

“Mr King’s medicine, obviously.”

“ _Obviously_ , Watson!”

“That is all I can tell you. You would need Mr King’s apothecary to know what these capsules are for.”

“Humpf.”

“Really, Holmes, _behave_.” The Doctor shot Mister Holmes a reproving look. It was The Look, famous to the point of legend among the Yarders as the only thing capable of chastising Consulting Detectives. It was, I can attest, remarkably effective.

“I guess I can send constable ...”

“Carson,” Doctor Watson filled in, remembering non-essential details about the various unimportant people they dealt with, as always.

“Yes, him, to the local apothecary to find it out.”

“He will be back in no time,” smiled the Doctor.

Mister Holmes rolled His eyes in feigned aggravation. “CONSTABLE!” He bellowed in a voice that rattled the window panes, walking out of the room with His distinctive hurried long paces.

This time I moaned aloud and clutched at my temples.

Doctor Watson gently tapped at my shoulder and slipped a phial into my palm. “This will dull the headache and knock down the fever.” Before I could thank him, he raised a glass of water towards me. “Twenty drops three times a day.”

“God bless you, Doctor Watson.”

* * *

Within a few minutes I understood why Mister Holmes picked specifically this room for the interrogations. It was spacious and comfortable, yet the soft but relentless ticking of the grandfather clock, the swings of its massive brass pendulum slicing time away, would prove unsettling for already restless suspects.

Barnaby Barnes was drumming his fingers nervously at a long mahogany desk, almost constantly adjusting his collar and cuffs, while Mister Holmes and Doctor Watson were leaning over the Doctor’s notebook, whispering conspiratorially and from time to time sending meaningful looks towards him. I was standing behind them, leaning against the solid oak wainscoting, close enough to understand that they were discussing the latest Gilbert and Sullivan operetta.

“It was the _worst_ frivolous musical you have taken me to, Watson.”

“You say so every time.”

“But even you have to admit it was quite horrid.”

“Yet, I caught you _humming_ melodies from it this morning.”

“ _This_ morning?”

“Oh fine, the morning before. Do not change the subject.”

“Well, the music was quite catchy, I have to admit, but the story was _terribly illogical_.” Saying this, Mister Holmes sent a really dirty look at Mr Barnes.

“You enjoyed it.”

“No, I did not.”

“You did. You kept pointing out each and every error you found.”

I camouflaged my chuckle with a cough.

Doctor Watson immediately shifted his attention towards me, scrutinising me worriedly.

“Congratulations,” said Mister Holmes, suddenly and loudly, holding out His hand towards Barnaby Barnes.

Mr Barnes flinched, clearly taken by surprise. “For what?”

“You have been proven ... not guilty.”

All colour vanished from his rough face, leaving him ghostly pale. “But I’ve done it. I’ve...”

“Mr Barnes, **do not** lie to **me**.” Mister Holmes steepled His fingers in front of His mouth. “There were no traces of the struggle you have described in your confession.”

“... I’ve ... cleaned it.”

“No, you did not.”

“... I ...”

Mister Holmes clicked His tongue with a disapproving shake of His head. “Mr Barnes, it is really admirable that you are trying to take the blame for a crime you could not possibly have committed, as you returned from a business dealing in West Wickham, I daresay, just the previous evening, long after the body of the unfortunate Jacob King was found.”

Barnaby Barnes grew even paler, his eyes widening with shock. “How on Earth can you possibly know that?”

Mister Holmes only smiled smugly at him. “Therefore, take my advice. Stop foiling the investigation. Mrs King will need all of the support you can offer her.” Dismissing him as person of no consequence, He turned to the elderly constable who stood close to door. “Constable, please, can you bring Wilhelm Mills in here?”

“As you wish, sir.”

“Holmes,” the Doctor turned to Him.

“Yes?”

“ _How_ did you know about West Wickham?”

“It is rather convenient for my profession that most men have a tendency to keep train tickets in _here_ ,” He tapped the uppermost pocket of His waistcoat with satisfied smile.

Doctor Watson sniggered. “And that those train tickets have a tendency to protrude, hmm?”

“Exactly, my dear doctor.”

* * *

Wilhelm Mills looked worse than before. I sympathized with the poor fellow for I myself was still feeling under the weather, despite the medicine the Doctor had given me.

“Young man, you should be resting in your bed,” Doctor Watson, always the tender-hearted one, exclaimed upon seeing him. “And by Jove, I am taking you there, right now.”

“But ...” breathed out Mr Mills.

“Mr Mills, it is really praiseworthy that you are trying to protect your beloved, but in the state you are in ...”

“But I’ve killed Master, it was not Millie, I ...”

Mister Holmes stopped his feverish outcry simply by raising his right hand in a calming posture of defence. “I know for a fact that the walking stick you claim you used did not leave this house.”

Wilhelm Mills exhaled with dismay and all but collapsed into Doctor Watson’s arms.

“It is all right, young man,” the Doctor consoled him. “Fear not.” With the constable’s help and an apologetic glance at Mister Holmes, who nodded understandingly, he firmly guided young Mills upstairs to his bedroom.

“So, Hopkins,” Mister Holmes motioned me to sit down on the chair previously occupied by Doctor Watson. “Which one shall we see next? The widow, or the daughter?”

* * *

“Why would you want to kill your husband, Mrs King?” I was the one talking.

Mister Holmes sat next to me wordlessly, fingertips joined in His trademark posture, observing the widow with the eyes of an eagle above its prey.

“Jacob wanted to ...” she stammered, “... he didn’t want Millicent to marry Willie. He thought she could find a better suitor.”

“I see.” He wished his only daughter to marry above her status, not to remain a butcher’s girl. “How did you make that oleander extract?”

“I boiled a few leaves in water.”

“Leaves, Mrs King? At this time of year?”

“Well, of course, Oleander is evergreen.”

“You have an _exceptionally_ beautiful garden, madam.” Mister Holmes spoke for the first time since Mrs King came in, saving me from my embarrassment over my gardening ignorance.

“Why, thank you, sir,” she blushed, clearly the garden was her pride.

“And yet, when I walked through it this forenoon, I did not notice anything amiss.”

I was well aware that He hadn’t got closer to the garden than the kitchen windows, let alone to walk through it, but I remained silent. One never knows what sort of ruse Mister Holmes is plotting.

“Amiss?”

“Well, either you are a remarkably cold-blooded woman, planning your own husband’s murder while taking perfect care of her beloved garden, or ... you are lying.”

“What does my garden have to do with Jacob?”

“Everything,” He said, almost dreamily, tilting His head and smiling knowingly.

She shuddered under his gaze and gulped nervously.

“You loved your husband, did you not?” His voice was gentle and mellow and she looked at Him, so heart-broken, so fragile, and nodded once, eyes veiling with tears.

“A woman so devoted like you could hardly poison her husband in such an awful fashion. Everything in your garden speaks of happiness. Plus, the only _nerium oleander_ in this house, winterized with a care, is not missing a single leaf.” Mister Holmes pointed at an enormous potted plant filling almost every space on the solid chest of drawers upon which it was stationed. He examined it with utmost care before calling Mrs King over.

Tears started to roll down her cheeks. “But she is my only daughter,” she whispered, grasping Mister Holmes’ hands for support. “She is everything I have left.”

“And to protect her, you would do anything. But you must allow me to unravel the truth. Not only for your sake, but for hers as well.”

“How could you ask for such a thing?”

“I ask only for what I know is right. And I promise you that I will do everything within my power to help both of you.”

She still looked hesitant, resembling a frightened rabbit ready to rush away at the slightest opportunity.

“You do not know for sure, do you?”

She shook her head, closing her eyes as if trying to suppress what was in front of her, to delay heart-breaking decisions.

“Then trust me, Mrs King.” He squeezed her hands tenderly. “It will fare well.”

She languidly allowed herself to be led away by the constable to the next room, towards the apprehensively waiting Barnaby Barnes, who would, hopefully, ease her suffering.

“So ... Everything points to Miss Millicent.” It was quite surprising. Out of the four of them, I would suspect her the least. Such a pretty girl as Millicent King should not be destined for the gallows. 

“It seems so.”

“I hate to disappoint you two,” Doctor Watson’s voice distracted us from our brown study, “but a brand-new possibility appeared only a moment ago.”

“Pray, not _another_ confessor,” I moaned.

The Doctor chuckled. “No. Constable Carson just returned from the apothecary. Mr King’s pills were a herbal remedy. They contained essences from nettle, hawthorn, motherwort and mistletoe, amongst others.”

“And that is consequential for us because ...?” Mister Holmes motioned His companion to explain.

“Because these are widely used for those with weak hearts.” Doctor Watson headed towards us and Mister Holmes rose up immediately, pulling His chair away gallantly for him to sit down. “Apparently, Jacob King was not exactly in the best of health.”

“Hmmm,” Mister Holmes tapped at the backrest above the Doctor’s shoulders. “Then perhaps we have just acquired the last _indicia_ needed for solving this mystery.”

* * *

While most girls of her age would no doubt be at the verge of fainting from anxiety in such a situation, Millicent King was the embodiment of calmness, at least at first glance. But when I paid closer attention to minor details, as Mister Holmes constantly encourages all those who work with him, I noticed the tell-tale signs. The tense lines around her eyes, the expressionless look she adopted to hide her feelings, the wrinkles at the corners of her mouth from a forced smile, the way she convulsively clasped her palms together, the unconscious, barely perceptible, movement of her thumbs, stroking up and down, round and round. All these spoke clearly of enormous inner turmoil.

“Miss King.” Mister Holmes still loomed over Doctor Watson’s chair, both of His hands laying idly on the backrest. They resembled a merciful monarch seated on his throne, with his _éminence grise_ preparing to whisper something insidious into his ruler’s ears. “Now, be so kind as to tell me **why** would you kill your father.”

“I have already told you why. He did not approve ...”

“Of your relationship with young Mills. Oh yes. I have heard that. But it is not a reason for murder.”

She tried to answer immediately but failed. For the first time she looked bewildered. “... We...well, it is.”

“Is it, really?” Mister Holmes tilted His head, a ghost of a smile tugging at His lips.

“You could have eloped.”

I’m not ashamed to admit that my jaw literally dropped wide open, for I had never expected such a suggestion coming from Doctor Watson.

Miss King’s expression changed for a split second. And to my embarrassment I was not able to decipher it.

“Ah.” Mister Holmes, apparently, had no such a problem. “You contemplated it.”

“Yes.” She swallowed audibly. “Yes, we did.”

“And ... what happened that made you change your relatively harmless plan?”

She hesitated, so the Doctor stepped in again. He might have written somewhere in his stories that Mister Holmes can charm his way with the ladies when he wants, or rather _needs_ , but His abilities pale with jealousy before Doctor Watson’s own skills in this area. One sympathetic gaze from the graceful widower and every woman spills out things she didn’t even know she knew. “Dear child. You do not have to be afraid of us.”

“Perhaps it would be of great interest to you, Miss King,” Mister Holmes smiled feebly to her, “that your sweetheart could not have perpetrated the murder of your father.”

“He couldn’t?” She literally brightened up.

“No,” smiled Doctor Watson. “And neither could your mother.”

“Nor Mr Barnes,” I added. “You are the only one left.”

Millicent King paled visibly, dreadful realization creeping up her pleasing features.

“Rest assured, Miss Millicent,” the Doctor took her hands into his, “we are well aware that you are innocent.”

“One would need much more than half a bottle of arsenic wafer to poison a man with as strong a constitution as your father.” Mister Holmes smiled kindly at her. “Truth be told, I did not search through all the possible places in which you could get rid of empty bottles. I doubt that I would find any and I _sooo_ despise futile work.”

“Would you tell us why you confessed?” I interjected.

“I ... I thought that Willie...” she stammered.

“Oh. That was so brave of you, my poor girl.” Doctor Watson squeezed her hands gently. “So very brave.” And with that, she became expertly caught in his bramble-net. “But why would Wilhelm do such a thing?”

“He had a terrible argument with father a few days ago.”

“Did he threaten your father with death?”

“Not exactly, but ...”

“I understand.”

“Miss King, do you know what _this_ is?” With a magician’s flourish, Mister Holmes produced the small box containing Jacob King’s medicine.

“No. I have not the slightest idea.”

“Could it be, by chance, your father’s medicine?”

“Certainly not, father was as fit as a fiddle.”

Mister Holmes and I looked at each other. I saw the razor edge of disappointment lurking deep in His eyes.

“Perhaps there have been certain symptoms of late, like breathlessness or general weariness ...” the Doctor motioned Miss King to continue his listing.

“Actually, when you mention it, sir, there were. Ah, it was just a common cold, but mother became very worried and tried to persuade him to rest properly.”

“Is it customary for your mother to behave like that?” asked Mister Holmes.

“Oh yes. I’m almost afraid to fall ill myself lest she would worry her hair grey.”

“A-Ha,” He smiled, His eyes lighting up brightly. “I see.” I have seen that look of His enough already to immediately understand that every piece of evidence had fallen into its proper place neatly, hence the mystery was solved.

“Miss Millicent,” the Doctor let go of her hands with a friendly pat, “I believe you are supposed to be upstairs, taking care of Mr Mills.”

* * *

No one spoke for several minutes, the only sound in the room was the monotonous ticking of the grandfather clock. 

Finally, Doctor Watson cleared his throat. "Well...."

“It was natural causes,” I stated, feeling like a complete idiot. 

Mister Holmes nodded once with a self-satisfied air.

The Doctor rubbed his eyes tiredly. “I’m afraid that my mind refuses to work anymore.”

“And yet you are dying with curiosity,” Mister Holmes took out his pipe only to realize, after profusely frisking himself, that he had left his tobacco at home.

“Why did every one of them confess?” I asked wearily.

“Pray, tell us, Holmes, before we fall asleep on you.” The Doctor offered Him his cigarette case.

“Quite simple.” He drew on the cigarette with gusto. “They tried to protect each other.” Our inquiring expressions urged him to continue. I vaguely noticed that both constables drew near to listen as well. “Firstly, Miss King. Being aware of a row between young Mills and her father, she came to the false conclusion that her beloved was the culprit and to cover for him, she took the blame on herself. Rather rashly, I daresay...”

“ _Holmes_.”

“...that it was a remarkably brave act.” He smiled innocently at Doctor Watson. “Naturally, Mrs King’s motherly instincts rose to the fore and she confessed too. Mr Mills obviously could not let the matter stand thus, despite his illness. And as for Mr Barnes, with his feelings towards Mrs King widely known, there was no wonder he rushed here to falsely confess upon hearing about this disarray.”

“And none of them thought that it could have been mischance?” asked Carson.

Mister Holmes smirked. “No one knew about Mr King’s weak heart.”

“Because he did not wish to upset his wife,” I realized.

He gestured me with the cigarette. “Exactly.”

“All this pandemonium because of a heart failure?” That was downright ridiculous!

“Even odder occurrences have happened,” said the Doctor with a small shrug of his shoulders.

“Quite so, dear Watson,” Mister Holmes smiled at him.

I looked at them mistrustfully. Some deeply buried memory reminded me of the Abbey Grange burglary last winter. They _knew_ something back then, something they hadn’t revealed to the officials. “Really?” I asked, not quite able to keep the suspicion out of my voice.

“Oh, Hopkins,” Mister Holmes gave me His most charming smile. “I would be really surprised if the official _post-mortem_ proves otherwise.”

“Of course, Mister Holmes,” I smiled back tiredly. “ _Of course_.” Especially when Doctor Watson would be, quite by coincidence of course, supervising said autopsy.

* * *

I must have fallen asleep soon after I sat down on the uncomfortable seat in the train compartment we shared with a couple of clerks, for the next thing I remember was Doctor Watson leaning over me, gently shaking my shoulder to wake me up.

“Hopkins, we are already at Charing Cross. And the cab is waiting.”

I followed after him like an obedient lamb, resolutely trying to ignore the dull pounding in my head. Despite my misery, I would have to stop at headquarters to write my report about this incident before I headed for my own bed. A day or two off duty should prove sufficient to improve my weakened condition.

But unbeknown to me, Mister Holmes and Doctor Watson conspired for a different course of action.

So, when we stopped in front of 221B Baker Street, to my immense surprise I found myself being pushed and pulled out of the cab. And before I pulled myself together enough to be capable of protesting, I was standing in front of the burning furnace which was the fireplace in their sitting room.

“Off with the waterlogged clothes,” came the stern order from the Doctor, while Mister Holmes disappeared into His own bedroom.

“But ...”

He pointed his forefinger at me threateningly. “Or I’ll take them off myself, young man.”

The first thing I learned from my association with Mister Holmes was to never talk back to Doctor Watson. _Especially_ when Mister Holmes Himself was within hearing distance.

“Here.” Mister Holmes resurfaced with an armful of clothing. “The sleeves will prove rather long for you, I’m afraid.” He shoved that pile unceremoniously into my arms.

“And the trousers likewise,” added the Doctor, already heading towards the staircase leading up to his bedroom.

Mister Holmes rolled his eyes resignedly at the retreating back of His companion, whereupon He turned to me and whispered conspiratorially: “But you would fall out of Watson’s clothes.”

“I heard you,” came from halfway up the staircase.

“Then you still have exceptionally good hearing, _old boy_.” 

I didn’t exactly understand Doctor Watson’s reply, but it drew out an amused snort from Mister Holmes before He disappeared into His bedroom again.

I surrendered. There was no other possibility left than to comply when both of them set their minds on the same goal.

Shortly after I had changed, Mrs Hudson brought fresh tea, confiscated our soaked clothing and informed me that I was staying for dinner.

“Tuck yourself up on our settee, Hopkins,” Mister Holmes handed me a thick colourful afghan, almost identical to the one wrapped over His mousy dressing gown, “before Watson gets the idea to lie you down there personally.”

I stuttered a thank you, a magnificent blush heating up my cheeks even more than they already were, and followed His instructions.

With a smirk He poured me tea and I noticed how furtively He moved the heavy cushioned footstool towards the Doctor’s armchair when passing it. He seated Himself, or rather, nestled Himself in a curled up posture with legs up on His armchair, gazing unhappily at the parcel wrapped in brown paper in His hands, the one I know contained Mrs Hudson’s sandwich. After a while He cast a contemplative look into the fireplace.

“Don’t you even dare to think about destroying the evidence,” Doctor Watson reproved Him from within the sitting room doorframe, also bundled up in similar colourful afghan.

“Oh, you are _terrible_.”

“At your service,” grinned the Doctor, wearily dragging himself down to his own armchair and stretching his legs over the footstool. The suddenly very conveniently located footstool, if you ask me.

“And, pray, what am I supposed to do with it? I can hardly throw it away.”

“You should have eaten it in the first place.”

Mister Holmes tutted. “There was scarcely time for such a distraction, Watson, I ...” He stopped awkwardly.

I turned to Doctor Watson, only to find him sound asleep, head tilted back, breathing evenly through his open mouth.

Mister Holmes shook His head, a gentle smile spreading across His features, and then He took a healthy bite of the well-travelled sandwich.

I hid my own smile in the cup of tea I was holding.

 

There are so many bad things about late autumn – almost constant downpours, frigid wind, lack of sunshine and warmth, damp and chilly sentry duties, that ever-returning epidemic of influenza which drives half the force into their beds, and last but not least, the increased crime rate.

Yet ... 

The rainy season is my most beloved time of the whole year.

**Author's Note:**

> ¤ Arsenic complexion wafer used to be a fairly popular and “perfectly harmless” cosmetic product that ought to produce, preserve and enhance a transparency and pellucid clearness of complexion, in other words, creating a lovely pale skin. For more info about arsenic complexion wafer, as well as other oddities in (not only) Victorian medicine I wholeheartedly recommend [The Quack Doctor](http://thequackdoctor.com/index.php/dr-mackenzies-improved-harmless-arsenic-complexion-wafers/).  
> ¤ _Nerium oleander_ is an evergreen shrub or small tree, considered to be one of the most toxic plants all around the world. To kill a grown man, one would need merely two leaves of Oleander. It is said that a man could end up poisoned only due to consuming honey which was made from oleander blossom. The effects of poisoning can consist of nausea and vomiting, excess salivation, abdominal pain, diarrhoea, irregular heart rate, drowsiness, tremors or shaking of the muscles, seizures, collapse, and even coma that can lead to death.  
>  ¤ Librettist W. S. Gilbert (1836–1911) and the composer Arthur Sullivan (1842–1900) collaborated on fourteen comic operas between 1871 and 1896. Given the timeline I have in mind for this case, the aforementioned piece would be their last co-operation called _The Grand Duke_ which premiered at the Savoy Theatre on 7th of March 1896.  
>  ¤ Nettle (Urtica Dioica), hawthorn (Crataegus Laevigata), motherwort (Leonurus Cardiaca) and yes, even the poisonous mistletoe (Viscum Album) are all herbs used to strengthen the heart and/or blood pressure.  
> ¤ Inspector Stanley Hopkins first appeared in _The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez_ set in November 1894, afterwards came his somewhat odd performance in _The Adventure of Black Peter_ from July 1895, and finally he refined his reputation a bit in aforementioned _The Adventure of the Abbey Grange_ which occurred in winter 1897. Based upon this, one can theorize that he and Holmes met only after the incident at the Reichenbach Falls.


End file.
